


The Silent Call

by coldpaws



Series: Skin Illusions [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/M, M/M, Origin Story, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldpaws/pseuds/coldpaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diana waits. Clark despairs. Bruce avoids. The stories of three young people, from three very different lives, discovering and interpreting their soul marks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diana

**Author's Note:**

> The first fic I've written in several years, so be forgiving. After reading several Avengers fandom works with variations on this idea, the need for trinity fic latched on until I wrote it down. I freely admit to borrowing heavily from others' ideas on how soulmate identification might work. 
> 
> This work makes no particular effort to be faithful to continuity, but uses a pastiche of what I like.

Hippolyta wept at the first gasp of the babe on the sand. As her new daughter cried out, she washed the earth from her skin in the surf. Youthful Dawn, with her rose red fingers, seemed to reach down and grace the babe’s cheeks. When she was clean, Hippolyta carefully checked her head to toe. The child’s skin was healthy and flawless – but Hippolyta did not worry over much. Amazons lived long lives.

Diana grew healthy and energetic; headstrong and steadfast; a warrior any Amazon mother could be proud of, and a princess well loved by her people. Her mother, and her tutors and trainers and counselors as well, were honest when she asked why they carried words on her skin. Some, like her mother, bore a single phrase or greeting. Others, such as Philippus, carried the words of many mates.

“Why are these words white, Philippus?” Diana asked, when resting after a bout of swordplay. Philippus had uncharacteristically agreed to bathe with her, and upon removing her armor, revealed a pale, scarred mark twisting on her flank. When Philippus turned, she could not suppress a gasp at the markings hidden by her clothes. _Pardon, but I have lost my way, I need to get to the physic…Who are you to make these demands?...Well met, Philippus…_

“Diana, you know that we Amazons have not always lived unmolested here on Themyscira. In the days of old, I often traveled in the world of men.” She paused, and seemed to focus on scrubbing her face. “When a woman’s soulmate dies and leaves this world for the next, their words fade into scars. But the gods are not cruel, and sometimes, a woman may awaken to discover a new set of words has appeared on her skin.”

Diana contemplated this as she stroked her fingers through her hair. She was very curious, but also sensitive to Philippus’ sadness. The priestesses had taught her that before a person was born, the Moirai carefully crafted the thread of their soul. So too did the Moirai love to pair well-matched yarns together, in order to make the tapestry of Fate more beautiful. But often the Moirai did not find a match until after a person must needs be born, or Lachesis allotted a shorter life to one of the mates. So it was that Diana was still awaiting her words. Still, it did seem cruel, to her, for Clotho to spin two lives together, only to have Atropos cut one away.

As Diana continued to mature, it became clear that the gods and goddesses had graced her with gifts even beyond those of the typical Amazon. Her speed, her strength, her endurance, her senses, all enhanced her skills on the training ground and the hunt. She loved her sisters dearly, but was filled with restlessness. Her favorite activity was horseback riding, as far and as fast along the shore as her mare will run. She could not abide tasks of the hearth – in particular, spinning and weaving. 

Maia laughed at her often, accompanying her as she struggled to follow the instructions of the master crafters of their nation. Maia was not much older than Diana, and lean and beautiful with golden hair, and Diana could only blush and look away when she kissed or danced with her soulmate. Until one evening, towards the end of the spring festival, when they invited her to their quarters, and Maia kissed her neck and shoulder while Euboea pulled at her peplos. Would she lie with them tonight, and let them share with her the talents of lovers? Diana sent a momentary prayer to Aphrodite to bless her friends, and said yes.

But even these pleasures of the flesh faded with time, and she found her mind often unquiet. She took lovers as they came to her, but felt no desire to seek them out. She prayed as dictated, and fulfilled her royal duties as Hippolyta requested, but could tell her mother worried over her. 

And then one day as she placed an offering at the statue of Apollo, she felt a strange warmth on her leg. She looked down, and saw a new string of black writing stretching down her calf. She bent down, then shifted to put her leg in the sun. The writing was scribbled nonsense. Confusion, then anger struck her heart. What could it mean?

“Ah, I see you have finally been graced with words,” she heard from further in the temple. “May I see them?”

“Menalippe!” Diana turned in surprise. “I did not know you would be at Apollo’s temple today.”

“I often come here to think.” Menalippe replied noncommittally. And to Prophesize, Diana thought to herself. Diana felt uncertainty join the emotions already roiling through her at the thought of revealing her soulmark to the old woman. Still, it would be extremely presumptuous to deny the Oracle, now that she had already seen the words. They exited the temple and sat on the stairs together. Menalippe hmmed as she skimmed her fingers over the mark.

“Well, I cannot read them, but they are yours, and so they are beautiful,” she commented at last.

“But what does it mean? Am I cursed? Why should the Fates have marked me this way?” Diana cried out, finally revealing her turmoil.

“Do not be so frightened, child. I cannot read these words, true…but there was a time when I could not read the letters of the Phoenicians, nor the glyphs of the Egyptians, nor even the words of our own language,” she chuckled at herself, and the younger women, as Diana’s expression shifted from distress to perplexion. “What does it mean? It means that your soulmate is not from Themyscira.”

“Then…” Diana turned to stare out across the bluff, towards the foam of the sea. Menalippe only nodded and pat her hand. “Please do not tell my mother.”

“I will not lie to her,” Menalippe replied, “but I will not mention it either. After all, your soulmate has just been born. I am sure you will show the Queen in good time.”

Diana stopped running barefoot or wearing sandals and took to wearing boots. Boots cut high to her knees, in the fashion of the butchers, and tanners, and blacksmiths. When a few years later she felt another spread of warmth across her belly, she waited until the torches burnt low to sneak out under the moonlight. She untied her belt and traced the words which ran from hip to hip. The script was different, but she was clever enough to match letters with the set on her leg. Two soulmates, waiting to meet her, somewhere out in Man’s world. 

When her ruse was discovered, Hippolyta pulled her close to hide her tears. 

“I’ve known for a long time the gods did not send you only to be my daughter, but for greater purposes laid down by Fate,” she whispered. “Oh, my little sun and stars.”

Diana didn’t have any words to say, so she said nothing, and clutched her mother tightly.


	2. Clark

Lara watched, holding their infant son, as Jor instructed Brainiac to search the Registry of Houses. The mark was golden, nearly bilaterally symmetrical, emblazoned on the babe’s right shoulder. House sigils flew by on the screen at a dizzying rate.

“The mark does not match any current or extinct House sigil in the Registry, Jor-El,” Brainiac said neutrally. Lara turned away from the screen, taking in her son, tracing his nose, tracing the mark. Jor place his arm over her shoulders and kissed her hair.

“I think, until this very moment, a small part of me didn’t believe you. I am ashamed to say. I wanted you to be wrong,” Lara whispered.

“I didn’t want to be right,” Jor replied. “But take comfort, Lara. This means he will make it. His soulmate is there, waiting for him.”

“He’ll be so different, Jor…but maybe…” She turned into her husband, the rough texture of his beard, the warmth of his skin on hers as she kissed his lips tenderly. “Not alone.”

5 hours later, Lara lays out a proper set of clothes, wraps Kal-El in the cloak of the House of El, and tucks him into the rocket. She smoothes the El over his belly, kisses him, and steps back as Jor engages the take-off sequence. 

\----

When Jonathan and Martha pulled a baby boy out of a rocket in a corn field, they were shocked, and confused, but there was really only one thing to do, so after throwing a tarp over the rocket they climbed back into the pickup and drove the rest of the way home. 

It wasn’t until an hour or so later, when Martha was washing him in the sink, wondering over the strange…tattoos? on his chest and arm, that she even thought to check him for words. But as she drained the tub and rubbed him dry, she didn’t find any. 

“Well, it seems we didn’t give them all away,” Jonathan said as he came down from the attic with a cardboard box. He sets it on the kitchen table, pulls a Leatherman out of his pocket and cuts open the tape.

“He doesn’t have any words, yet,” Martha blurted out, still holding a naked baby in a dishtowel. John put down his knife.

“He’s just a little fella, Martha, give it some time,” he said but he hugged them both anyways.

Jon moved the rocket into the barn, that night. They spent two weeks on edge, buying diapers and formula out of town, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but no one ever came asking after a baby boy. There was nothing on the news about satellites, or rockets, except for a note in the Smallville Ledger about ongoing beautiful meteor showers and what time of night to expect the best view.

One morning, at a crack of dawn feeding, they all sat together on the porch watching the sunrise, and Martha said, “We really were blessed, when that girl in my hometown decided to trust her baby boy to us, weren’t we?” Jon nodded his head slowly. “But she was so afraid and ashamed…I’m sure Father Paul will help us sort out the paper work without having to reveal her identity. You’ll have to talk to him tomorrow, while I leave town to pick the baby up.” Jon set the bottle aside on the floor and shifted the baby to his shoulder.

“Clark,” he say, “While you go and pick Clark up.”

Jon knew Martha was still anxious after that, waiting on his words or for their little boy to be taken away from them. A lot of children who died young never got words. But it did get better after she came back and he’d filled out an adoption record. They had to hide the mystery tattoos, of course. They kept him clothed when they took him to the pediatrician, merely marking “No words” on the check-in sheet. At the church picnic, when the other children were swimming, they would hold him back, “We haven’t had the chance to teach him yet.”

Clark couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know about words. His Pa had them wrapping around his left forearm and wrist, and his Ma carried hers neatly on the back of her right hand. Words were part of washing dishes, driving the tractor, milking the cows. Other kids at church, those who had them already, might show them to each other and recite by rote what theirs said. Clark didn’t have words yet, but he did have his pictures, as his Ma called them. One was black, with dark wings that fanned out over his ribs under his heart. The other was gold, also winged like a hawk or an eagle, on his shoulder. Pa said they were very private, and must never be shown off at church or anywhere else. 

In middle school, nearly everyone had words, except Clark, so his parents helped him practice his first lies. They told his 6th grade teacher that his words had appeared in a very private location, and they spread it around the other parents of his grade at the ice cream social. That fall Clark endured a couple weeks woodenly reminding his nosier classmates that _Nice to meet you, Mr. Kent_ were really not really all that exciting as far as words go, even if they appeared near his privates, and life went on. At 12, Clark was still holding out hope.

In high school, when he started to really get strong and fast, and hear things he shouldn’t, and see things he shouldn’t, Pa finally told him the real story of how they found him. Clark felt tears in his eyes, and his throat was tight, when Pa showed him the spaceship, “Can’t I just keep being your son?”

“Clark, you are my son.” Pa hugged him, and Clark cried and cried, and at 15 gave up hope of ever having a soulmate. 

Clark kept to himself, mostly, for…a lot of reasons. Lana told him she had a crush on him, but after a few very chaste dates, he broke it off. In college in the city he focused on his studies, and avoided parties. A girl with dark hair and bright green eyes who lived in his hall joined him in the study lounge a few times, and introduced herself as Lori, and wouldn’t take maybe for an answer. Clark was lonely and she was bright and beautiful, so they dated a few weeks and they made out and cuddled in the lounge. But when she brought him back to her dorm and took off her pants he saw her words trickling down the back of her leg. _It’s a beautiful day for a run, isn’t it?_ He realized he couldn’t have sex with her. 

“I’m sorry, I, I can’t, I’m sorry, you’re wonderful, I’m…goodbye.” He was hurting a lot after running out on Lori like that, and thought about calling his Ma, but he was a grown man and didn’t want to worry her any more. 

Instead he put on a dark hoodie and just ran free through the city, and when he smelled the smoke he didn’t even stop to think but just bowled into the burning building. He followed the crying, hitting his ears over the roar of flames and crackle of wood, to a mother and her little girl on the 4th floor. At first they cringed away from him, and he realized how terrifying a big, broad, six-foot-plus man in dark clothes must be, coming out of the fire and covered in soot. But the smoke made them weak and he managed to put the woman over his shoulder and cradle the little girl in his right arm, and kicking out the window he jumped down to the alleyway below. 

As he was washing his smoke soaked clothes in the dorm laundry room, he thought about his Pa scolding him for risking revealing himself like that. Sex wasn’t worth it, but the little girl and her mom, they were worth it, he decided. He held that thought close. 

When he went home over summer break to help on the farm, he told his Ma and Pa about a few of his late night runs. That was when Pa took him back out to the barn and his life turned upside down again. If he couldn’t help himself from helping others, maybe he shouldn’t do it in U of M sweatshirts, was what Pa said, cracking open the rocket that Clark had avoided for three years and pulling out shimmering red and blue cloth. Something nearly fell out of the fabric onto the dirt, but Clark caught it just in time, and it began to glow.

Clark followed the song of the crystal, running and running, and at the end of the road he met his birth father for the first time in his life...or at least, his shadow. He had so many questions. Of course, after “Where do I come from?” and “Why am I here?” came

“Why did you tattoo me?” The apparition of Jor-El, remarkably lifelike, crinkled his brow in confusion.

“We did not tattoo you. I deduce that you refer the mark on your right shoulder?”

“And the one here,” he placed a hand under his pectoral, nodding. “I’ve had them since I was a baby. Since I came out of the rocket. My parents- the people here who raised me- they didn’t know what to make of them, or how they grew with me.” Clark saw a flicker of surprise on his face before Jor-El nodded solemnly.

“Do you see this crest?” He raised his right arm, gesturing to the “S” on his robes. “This is the symbol of our House, the House of El. It is the symbol of your house, Kal-El. When your mother was born, she bore this crest on her skin, and her family knew that her lifemate would be found among our kin. My skin in turn bore the crest of her House, the House of Van. When you were born, you bore the symbol on your right arm,” Jor-El breathed an ethereal sigh, “a symbol of no house of Krypton.” Clark’s chest tightened, and his head felt light, as he tried to absorb what Jor-El was explaining to him. “We had already been planning to send you away from Krypton before the end. Your symbol strengthened our resolve, surmising that your lifemate would not be found among our kind.”

“You’re saying they’re my words? I mean, my soulmarks?” 

“The evidence suggests that they are the symbols of the houses of your lifemates. When you said you had developed another mark in your transit from Krypton to Earth, I registered surprise, as Jor-El had never encountered the possibility of more than one lifemate before. I have searched the records included in the data crystal, but have found only mythological references to individuals with more than one mate crest. However, this indicates it may be possible for Kryptonians to be partnered in triads.” Clark swallowed dumbly. He sat down, collapsed really, onto the floor of the crystalline chamber.

“Kal-El, are you in distress?” Jor-El asked.

“No! No, I’m alright.” Clark placed his hands over his clothes where they hid his marks, his left to his gold mark and his right to his black one. His head was spinning, and he had to focus and breath deeply, but he felt a new emotion bubbling up as a small smile broke across his face: Hope. Two soulmates…Now he had to figure out how to recognize them, without knowing their first words!


End file.
